The Ship Of Reality
by hollie-lou-xx
Summary: A collection of one-shots, each about a character from Titanic. A/N: Jack lives. Chapter Three-Ruth DeWitt Bukater
1. Caledon Hockley

_**One. **_

_**Cal Hockley.**_

'_**A real man makes his own luck.'**_

He hadn't always been a bastard.

Once, he had been nothing but a sweet little boy, one whom would never hurt a fly and was afraid of his own shadow.

Once, he had a heart.

Not the cold chunk of ice that lay there in his later years, but a warm and fully functioning collection of caring veins and gentle arteries. But the older he grew, the more he changed.

And eventually, he became the thing he never wanted to.

He became like his father.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Marie<strong>_

On December 31st, 1882, Marie Hockley gave birth to a healthy baby boy named Caledon Nathan Hockley. Even at a few minutes old, his parents were sure he would grow up to be a handsome man. Upon his head was a mess of dark hair, exactly like his father's own.

Richard Hockley was proud of his son. Unlike most babies, he barely opened his mouth.

"That shows bravery," he never tired of telling his wife.

Marie would simply smile and shake her head. "Whether he is brave or not, I will love him all the same."

And that was true, for no matter what her baby did, Marie found it amazing. She adored being a mother and took the role very seriously.

"I do not want him carted off to a nanny every morning. I am his mother, I shall take care of him," she told Richard sternly, hours after little Caledon was born.

Richard couldn't argue, for her knew his wife well and knew she would not change her mind on the subject.

For a few days after Caledon's birth, everything was perfect. But one fateful night the unthinkable happened.

Marie woke up screaming in pain, her face paling from bright red to sickly grey. Richard knew his wife was in distress, for she never complained.

He called for the doctor immediately, but it was too late.

Marie Hockley died less than a week after her son's birth.

That was Cal's first downfall.

He had killed his mother at only three days old.

It was something he never forgot- partly because his father never let him, but also because even though he was only a baby, it was his fault. And it was wrong to kill someone, whether accidentally or on purpose.

When Richard Hockley died, Cal was somewhat thankful. One less person to make him feel guilty about his mother's demise.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Rose<strong>_

Cal never was very good at showing his feelings, though he truly tried his hardest with Rose DeWitt Bukater. She was everything he ever wanted- maybe it was because she was so much like how his father had described his mother. Cal thought that if he could care about Rose and show how much she meant to him, Marie would understand how sorry he was.

But he didn't know how to love. That's where the problem started. He cared for Rose so much… yet how could he show it? The only way he knew was to shower her with expensive gifts. He never knew where he stood with her, she was always so cold. But he could hardly blame her. Living with a man like himself would be hard, for he knew he was a handful.

But he loved Rose with all of his heart. When he left her for that… that gutter rat he was heartbroken. But deep down, he knew it was his own fault. It always was.

* * *

><p>In 1929, Cal's past finally caught up with him.<p>

He lost everything in the Wall Street Crash- his money, his business, even his home. He had nothing but the clothes on his back. Cal had nobody in the world, that hit him like a ton of bricks.

He had never realised before; he was always immersed in his work, he was too busy to think about family or friends.

A memory flitted across his mind briefly.

"I apologise for my daughter Cal. I hope you will stay in touch, for you are a perfect gentlemen and goodness knows the world needs more of them!"

That was what Ruth DeWitt Bukater had written in a letter to him. But that was ten years ago, she probably wouldn't even remember him.

What he really wanted- what he really _needed_- was Rose. But she was with Jack, presumably surrounded by a scattering of small children in a tiny house. It was his idea of hell, yet knowing Rose she was probably happy. At least he hoped so.

Cal sat down at his desk and pulled out three slips of paper. He wrote the first letter rather quickly, for he knew what he wanted to say.

_Dear Jack Dawson,_

_I am sure you do not remember me, but my name is Cal Hockley. I was engaged to Rose DeWitt Bukater (or is it Dawson now, for when I searched so desperately for her, that was the only survivor or Titanic named Rose that I could find,) in 1912. _

_If you do remember me, you most probably hate me. I am writing to you to apologise for what I did all those years ago. I was foolish to think that a girl as wonderful as Rose deserved me- I am nothing but a shell of a man. _

_I suppose what I am trying to say, is congratulations. You won Mr Dawson. _

_I hope you can forgive me,_

_Sincerely, Caledon Hockley. _

The next letter was slightly more difficult. He knew Jack Dawson was a kind hearted, forgiving young man, but Rose was made of harder stuff. His letter would need to be much more heartfelt…

_My dearest Rose,_

_I am sending this to Jack Dawson's address, in the hopes you are together- and more importantly, alive. I hope firstly that you are happy. I couldn't bear it if you were not. I know that must sound strange, because I made our time together miserable, but I honestly did love you. _

_I can imagine you reading this, amusement in your eyes and a smirk on your face. I'm smiling right now, just picturing you. I hope you are still that clever, beautiful girl I met ten years ago, the same one who was brave enough to put me right. _

_I am not married, in case you were wondering. Though I am sure you are- probably to Jack. I can picture you both growing old together, surrounded by your children and grandchildren. You always were good with children._

_I love you Rose, do not ever forget that. _

_Love, Cal. _

The third letter was the easiest. It was written quickly, a scrawl across a page. It simply stated.

_To those whom it may concern,_

_I cannot go on. I need… escapism. I cannot pretend that everything is fine. I am Caledon Hockley, and I do not go down without a fight. But I have fought my hardest and I am so tired of it all._

_I apologise. You may all help yourselves to anything I own. _

_Sincerely, Caledon Nathan Hockley._

Just like that, he was done. Standing up rather calmly, he walked to his bookshelf and pulled out the leather bible he owned. Inside was a compartment- it was where he kept his gun. With a serene smile on his face, her checked the gun for bullets. It held three, though he would only need one. Then, in one smooth motion he slid the gun into his mouth.

His death was quick, and relatively painless. He died picturing Rose and Jack, but it was the happiest image he had had in a long time.

* * *

><p>AN: Next up will be Jack Dawson. He's my favourite! Remember, Titanic doesn't belong to me, although I wish it did. Jack never would of died if it did… Cal and the rest of the characters along with the original movie belong to James Cameron. Titanic belongs to… well, history really. Review! xx


	2. Jack Dawson

_**Two.**_

_**Jack Dawson.**_

"_**Neither do I, just go with it!"**_

Jack Dawson had lived a fairly blameless, simple life. Nothing terribly exciting had ever happened to him (unless you counted his parents dying, leaving him an orphan at the tender age of fifteen,) until he boarded the Titanic. But that's a different story, and in order to think about that he has to start at the beginning…

_**1903**_

_**Age 15**_

The house was burning; the smell invaded his nostrils, mixed up his head. He felt odd, as though he was dreaming. But as thick grey smoke crept through the gap between the door and the floorboards he realised it wasn't a dream, it was real life.

His life.

A life that he knew hung in the balance if he didn't get out soon.

But how could he escape?

The door was definitely not an option. More and more smoke was billowing into his little room and it was getting difficult to breathe.

He felt dizzy, his mind was blurring. He felt terribly tired… all he wanted to do was curl up and sleep…

"Jack!" the deep voice that shouted his name coughed. "Jack, Jack are you in there!"

He sat up shakily. He felt so numb, and so very, very tired…

He could just close his eyes for a second, surely that wouldn't matter? His eyelids fluttered and he gave up fighting. He was so tired…

The next thing he knew, he was lying outside on the cold grass, surrounded by his frantic neighbours.

Above him was dark sky… it was as black as treacle. No stars, no clouds, just pure darkness. The fire was out. Behind him was the house he had grew up in. He turned his head and saw it looking the same as ever.

He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.

"Oh, you're awake! Jonathon, he's awake!" He recognized that voice as Mrs Winters, the kind old lady who lived next door. Jonathon was her son.

"Give him some water, he's trying to speak!"

As he drank the water gratefully, a thousand and one questions buzzed around his head. The one that reoccurred the most was the one that left his dry lips first.

"Where's Mother? And Dad?"

His question was followed by a deathly silence. Jonathon spoke first, clearing his throat and stepping forward.

"Let's take you to my house, get you some clean clothes and some food…"

"No. Not until you tell me where they are."

Again everyone was silent. Jonathon knelt beside the boy, tears in his eyes.

"I'm so sorry, I tried, I really did…"

The truth hit like a ton of bricks.

Jack Dawson was an orphan at fifteen.

_**1907**_

_**Age 19.**_

Jack had left Chippewa Falls in the summer after his parents death. He didn't want to be like all those other men who married young and ran a business. That just wasn't him. He wanted more out of his life. He wanted to see the sights.

He spent his nineteenth birthday in Paris. It was a good choice. Paris was full of wonder, a truly beautiful city. It wasn't as fancy as Venice, yet not as bad as London. Jack liked Paris and it quickly became his favourite city.

He spent the night of his birthday in a bar, surrounded by people he had met earlier that day. There was one person- a girl, not much older than him- who stood out to him the most. Jack had met her the previous day, and since then they had spent a lot of time together.

Her name was Camille and she was a prostitute. In Chippewa Falls, prostitutes were known as pawns of the devil. But when Jack spoke to Camille he struggled to see how anyone could say that.

Jack opened up to Camille about his love of art. He expected her to laugh and tell him to be realistic but she didn't. Instead, she smiled encouragingly.

"Show me what you can do Jack."

Jack didn't need to be told twice. He opened his sketchbook- he had taken to carrying the leather bound book everywhere with him- and flipped through a few pages. They were all natural shots of strangers. There was one- on the first page- of his parents. That was done from memory.

Camille nodded. "I'm impressed. These are good."

Jack grinned at her. "Thanks. It's just a hobby."

From then on, Jack became much more confident about his drawings. He even drew Camille and her friends a few times. He liked drawing Camille the best though; she was a natural beauty, not like the other who wore bold rouge on their cheeks.

"You have very good features, Camille," he said one night as he drew her.

"What, like my leg?" she laughed.

Jack chuckled along with her. Camille had been in an accident some years ago and in the aftermath, he leg had been amputated. But she never let it bother her.

"Of course," Jack joked. "But seriously, you are very good to draw."

"Oh, oui? What is my best feature then, young Jack?"

"Your hands," he responded without hesitation.

Camille burst into laughter. "I think that is a compliment, though a very odd one!"

Jack and Camille remained friends until Jack moved on. Then he never heard from her again, despite their promises to stay in touch.

He still had his memories though, that was good enough.

_**1914**_

_**Age 29**_

When Jack was 24, his life changed.

It wasn't like an epiphany, it was much more realistic.

In one month he won tickets for the Titanic, fell in love with a first class girl, and almost died.

It was all worth it though, just to have Rose DeWitt Bukater- soon to be Rose Dawson- in his life.

He loved her with all his heart, so much so that he didn't even know it was possible. And- for some bizarre reason he couldn't quite fathom- she loved him too.

Two years later and they were still as madly in love than ever. Jack couldn't imagine his life without Rose and for that reason he proposed to her.

Rose had been calling herself Rose Dawson since they stepped on the Carpathia although they weren't married. But they both knew that they would marry; it was an unspoken decision between the two.

The wedding came much later than expected, but two years spent travelling around America passed very quickly.

They were to be married in Santa Monica, in the church with only Molly Brown- another Titanic survivor, yet the only person from Rose's past that they were still in touch with- and a few friends they had made to witness the occasion.

On the day of the wedding, Jack woke up alone. He didn't like that, he was so used to having Rose's warm body in his arms every morning. It took him a few minutes to remember she was in a nearby hotel with Molly, preparing for the wedding.

He didn't have much to prepare himself, since he already had his suit and shoes. Molly had insisted on buying them something nice to wear, although both Jack and Rose had tried to argue.

There was a knock at the door, and Jack knew who it would be.

"Hello Cameron," he greeted the teenage boy as he opened the door.

Cameron was Molly's son, a good looking boy at just sixteen, Jack treated him like the little brother he had never had.

"Good morning Jack, have you eaten yet?"

Jack shook his head. Cameron sighed and bustled his way into the kitchen, pulling out bacon and eggs and tomatoes. After a hearty breakfast, the two boys got dressed into their suits.

The whole time Jack wondered what Rose was doing. Cameron said she would be getting ready, but Jack would of much preferred to be there with her. He hated leaving her, even for one hour.

But much sooner than Jack expected, it was time to leave the little house were he and Rose were staying and go to the church.

"Are you nervous?" Cameron asked.

Jack shook his head. He was a little bit surprised. He had expected to be shaking with nerves, but he was perfectly calm.

"That is how you know you are meant to be together," Cameron said.

For a kid, he was very clever.

They arrived at the church quickly, and within minutes of arriving, it was time.

Rose floated down the aisle, a vision in white ivory. Her fiery red curls lay over her pale shoulders, and Jack thought she looked beautiful. But then again, he always did.

Upon Rose's finger was Jack's mother's ring. It was simple; silver with a sapphire in the middle. Rose loved it.

The ceremony passed in a blur until it was time for the most important words.

"Do you, Jack Charles Dawson, take Rose Elizabeth DeWitt Bukater to be your lawful wedded wife?"

Jack looked right into Rose's eyes and smiled. "I do."

"And do you, Rose Elizabeth DeWitt Bukater take…"

"I do," Rose interrupted.

The vicar laughed. "I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

Jack and Rose held hands for a long time before having the sweetest, softest kiss. Their small audience cheered and laughed.

Jack leaned his forehead against Rose's and murmured the three most important, meaningful words ever.

"I love you."

Rose smiled. "I love you too."

A/N: Aw, nice little bit of fluff there at the end. I love Jack Dawson, he's such a sweetie and I hate the fact James Cameron made him die! Now that my rant is over... Review please! Next chapter will be up shortly :)


	3. Ruth DeWitt Bukater

_**Three**_

_**Ruth DeWitt Bukater**_

"_**You are not to see that boy again Rose, do you understand me? I forbid it!"**_

When Ruth DeWitt thought about her death, she imagined for her to be surrounded by her daughter and grandchildren in a chateau in France, preferably in the country. She pictured herself as an ancient lady who had achieved a lot in her long life, and who many people looked up to.

The reality was much worse.

She lay alone in her large four poster bed, watching the snow fall outside with her pale blue eyes. Ruth couldn't move from her pillows for she was far too exhausted. It was getting tiring doing something as simple as breathing but she continued. It was hard for someone like her- a social butterfly, someone who took much delight in the parties and dinners of her high class- to be bedridden. She longed to be out with the other ladies, dressed in all her finery.

It wasn't that she didn't want to rest, because she did. It was more like she hated being alone.

When she was alone, the past haunted her…

* * *

><p><em><strong>1894<strong>_

_**15**__**th**__** December **_

Dear diary,

This is my final day as Ruth Princeton. Tomorrow I will be Ruth DeWitt Bukater, and I must say I am rather excited.

Of course, my mother is thrilled. I suppose she is glad I shall no longer be in her care, for- as you know- we have never gotten along well. But I shall miss her, in the oddest way. I find it rather odd how eager she is for me to marry Samuel. He is of the DeWitt Bukater family- they are modest people, though richer than anyone I have ever met- yet not as polite as the other gentlemen I know. I like that about him, he seems more… real. The rest are like puppets, the strings held by their father's. Samuel is different; he makes his own decisions.

Today we had a very long talk. It was pleasant, for we sat in the library in front of a roaring fire, drinking tea and discussing everything from our favourite books to Philadelphia (which is where we shall move when we are married,) society. I took the time to explain to him that I was not like the other girls, I was not to be treated like a possession. To my surprise, Samuel agreed with me. He has promised to treat me like a person, not an object. That has taken a huge weight from my shoulders.

_**19**__**th**__** December **_

I am now a married woman, and in all honesty it is not as bad as I thought it would be!

Samuel is possibly the perfect husband. I say possibly because he is the only husband I have ever- and will ever, hopefully- had. He treats me very well, and I do believe he loves me.

Last night I was in the library when he rushed in, telling me I had to stay in there until he told me to move. I laughed and followed his instructions, although I was quaking inside. I settled with a book in front of the roaring fire, and a little over an hour later Samuel returned. He covered my eyes and led me into the dining room, where a flurry of scents greeted me.

Samuel's warm hands left my eyes, revealing the dining room table covered in delicious looking treats.

With an excited- and most unladylike- squeal, I hugged him tightly.

I half expected him to pull away, but he didn't. Instead he squeezed me more tightly to him, wrapped in a close embrace. We only pulled apart when Samuel remembered the food. Then we sat down to a delicious meal, which Samuel sheepishly admitted he had helped make. I found that undeniably adorable and really rather sweet. However I didn't voice my thoughts to Samuel, as he was already blushing!

_**23**__**rd**__** December**_

Samuel and I have decided to spend Christmas in our own home. We decided it was only right, considering we haven't even lived here a month yet. My parents cannot join us, as they are in France visiting Grandmother. However Samuel's family are coming; his parents, plus his siblings and their families.

I've spent a large amount of time helping decorate- that was at Samuel's insistence. Once I had explained to him that I had never helped prepare for Christmas at home, Samuel rushed into the servant's house and told them to let me help in whatever way I wanted. I don't think they really want me around, and I always feel as though I am in the way, but I am enjoying decorating so much I do not notice anyone around me.

I can only hope this is a good sign to the rest of our lives being this happy.

_**1895**_

_**1**__**st**__** February**_

I cannot believe how fast the past two months have gone. I have been so busy!

Samuel has been working away an awful lot recently- which I hate, for I miss him so much!- which leaves me to run the manor on my own.

I have made a few good friends in town, mainly the wives of Samuel's friends. However I am grateful for their company, especially on days like these when Samuel is away. We spend a majority of our time in town, shopping and wandering carelessly, despite the freezing weather conditions. I am glad to have people my age to talk to, and although at first I thought they were in the same position as myself, I now realise that they are not. Their husbands are different to Samuel; they are thoughtless and rather harsh. I am thankful yet again that Samuel is the sweet natured kind man I deserve.

_**17**__**th**__** March**_

I have spent the past few days in bed. I feel terribly sick, and I believe Samuel is getting worried.

My stomach is in knots- what if something is wrong with me? I shall try not to think negatively, but in times like these one cannot help themselves.

It started around two weeks ago, rather early in the morning. I woke up very suddenly and rushed to the bathroom, where I was promptly sick. It has been the same every day since then and I feel as though instead of getting better, I am getting worse.

Since last Thursday I have been bed ridden. Every time I move I feel light headed, especially when I get awful sharp pains in my stomach.

Samuel has decided to get a doctor. I tried my hardest to tell him not to, but of course he did not listen. I am so very afraid of the verdict.

_**19**__**th**__** March**_

The doctor has just left. I am not sure how I feel.

I am pregnant. One and a half months pregnant, according to the doctor. I have not yet told Samuel, for I am worried about his reaction. Our lives are already perfect, why do we need more?

I know that once I tell him this news our lives will change, I do not want that. Although I want us to be happy, I feel as though having a baby so soon in our marriage will ruin things. Why do I, of all the women I know, have to be the one to be expecting? Marie and Charlotte adore babies and cannot wait to have their own, why don't I feel like that?

I shall have to tell Samuel soon. Fingers crossed that he is not angry…

_**29**__**th**__** October**_

I sit here writing this in bed, where I have been for the past two months, as my stomach is now too swollen to walk. Our baby is due this month, and hopefully very soon. I am not sure how much longer I can wait!

Samuel has been the perfect husband, yet again. Since I became too heavy to walk, he has stopped travelling. In fact, he stopped all of his travelling arrangements the day I told him about my pregnancy. I am not sure why I worried so about telling him. His reaction could not of been more perfect. He quite literally jumped for joy, and immediately began plans to renovate the whole third floor of our home into a nursery. I have not seen the finished product, though just last month he drew me a rather detailed picture of how everything looked. He is ever so talented in the ways of art, I often tell him he is wasted in the mining business.

I must go to sleep now, for although it is barely midday I am exhausted.

_**3**__**rd**__** November **_

Tears roll down my cheeks as I write this.

Two days ago I gave birth to not one baby but two. I only lie with one now- a darling baby girl named Rose- for her brother did not survive.

I am heartbroken. Samuel is too, though he does not show it as much as I. I am struggling to enjoy Rose, for I mourn the death of Jacob terrible. He looked exactly like his father- all blonde hair and blue eyes, a truly beautiful baby boy- and I think, if he was to have the chance to grow up, he would be just as warm hearted as Samuel.

Rose is stunning also, with her creamy skin and shocking red curls. But she is short tempered and stubborn, Samuel says she is more like myself than him. I am not sure how I am to love this baby girl, when your brother died so quickly. I don't dare voice my concerns to Samuel, for I know he adores Rose already.

I am sure she will grow up to be a daddy's girl. I suppose I can only wonder what Jacob would be like...

* * *

><p>Ruth didn't mean to be heartless. But, she supposed, she didn't really have any excuses. She wanted Rose- her sweet, darling Rose- to be happy. But she deserved better than Jack Dawson. She deserved… well, someone of the social status of Cal Hockley.<p>

But Ruth had already tried to set her daughter up with him. She simply didn't have the energy anymore. She was ready to die.

It happened one especially cold night, She lay in bed, praying Rose would visit her so her dear mother wouldn't die alone. But Rose never showed.

Someone else did.

A small child, no older than three, with sandy blonde hair and shiny blue eyes. His skin was tanned, and his chubby face was smiling. He reminded her of someone…

"Mommy?" the small boy said quietly, his eyes filling up with tears.

Ruth nodded and smiled. "I'm here Jacob, I'm here."

She found that suddenly she had the strength she once had in her youth and that made her glad. She reached down and lifted her son into her arms, cuddling him tightly.

The next morning, Ruth DeWitt Bukater was written into the New York Time's obituary.

A/N: So another character done and dusted. I'm not sure if any of this was written into Ruth's past, but it made a good story right? The next chapter will be up soon!

Thank you for reading, as always I own ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to do with Titanic (unfortunately). Review! xx


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